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An ancient mystery in Runeterra

So Kog'maw has a rare line that he says, which would be,"Terror coming...Daddy coming...."

Malzahar and kassadin were brought to their knees in Icathia (which so happens to be kog'maw's passive also: (Icathian Surprise)), thus leaving an infected area in Icathia, spreading void.

Could this possibly be Kog'maw's father? As everywhere south of the Great Barrier is malevolent, ominous, and spooky, and the only places not posted in Ezreal's findings would be Fyrone Flats, Sablestone mountains and Ichatia.

Ok hear me out here guys
Since the artifacts were found everywhere, yet no one knows what the thing is, what is it was some kind of demonic warrior that was so powerful that after he was defeated or banished or whatever, he wiped the minds of all who had seen or heard of him so they couldn't prepare for his return

The Watchers advanced, merciless and cold as the ice they so resembled. They cared not that the men they slaughtered by the dozens lay on the ground, tired and weakened, weary of battle. The Watchers cared only that they still drew breath.

Thenn Wulfsson knelt in the snow, his life weeping into the ground around him, painting the pure white snow pink. His sword lay on the ground beside him, shattered against the diamond armor of a Watcher, and his shoulder ached from a beam of ethereal energy's glancing blow. Blood--some of it his own, some of it the Watchers', and most of it his brothers'--caked his beard and covered his face, forming a grizzly visage. He felt no shame in being bested; a warrior's death was the greatest that any son of the blade could receive.

And his death would be truly glorious: the Watchers had forced Thenn and his tribe back, and up one of the many mountains surrounding the Abyss. His brothers had fought bravely and with great tenacity, the Watchers having fought for every step of the mountain. The warriors of the Rus fanned out at a clearing near the mountain's peak, preparing to face down death, but many of them could not even lift their blades, such was the havoc wreaked by the Watchers.

For the first time in his life, as bleed poured from wounds across his body and his leg gave out beneath him, Thenn felt cold. It was not the temperature--no being born of the Freljord would ever succumb to mere cold--but the realization that they had failed. The last he'd seen of the other tribes, all were being pushed back by the Watchers in a frozen tide. It mattered not that they outnumbered the foul beings a dozen to one, for every Watcher was easily the better of two dozen mortals. The Sisters had been successful, holding their own lines and even advancing, but what did it matter? The Sisters were three, and could not hold every line at once.

And so they had lost. Thenn did not mourn for himself, or his lifelong friends who had been mowed down beside him, or those soon to be slain. He mourned for the family he had left behind, knowing that he had failed them--and damned them. At least I shall have a death worthy of song, a last stand against the greatest evil of the Freljord. I shall fall with my wounds to the fore and my friends to rear, as it should be, and there will be not a single soul to see it, or sing of the tale of the last stand.

The Watchers would not even give the Rus the honors of single combat or a moment to acknowledge their prowess: they paced without stop nor sound, and never once did they cease their magical attacks. Several of the Watchers did pause momentarily of the corpses of the slain humans, bending to fill chalices with the blood of the fallen. "Honorless fiends," spat Thenn.

RISE. The voice seemed to unfold itself within the confines of Thenn's mind, whispering sweet promises and wiping away thoughts of death and glory. "Rise," he found himself muttering. "Rise." He did not recall rising to his legs or renewing his grip upon the broken blade, but he found himself limping towards the Watchers.

FIGHT.

"Fight." It became a chant, a mantra, as the warriors around him echoed his actions and his call. "Fight. Fight!"

Then Thenn was running headline towards the Watchers' line, his brothers-in-arms alongside him. He saw that their mouths were open, giving life to some vast war cry, a promise of vengeance and retribution. A hymn to death. He also realized that he, too, was giving voice to chilling dirge, and realized that it was no simple cry. They were still chanting, still screaming, fight.

At that moment, something--some minuscule aspect of the battle--shifted. Thenn Wulfsson had spent his entire life fighting, had learned to wield blade and bow since he could walk. He had won dozens of battles and lost a mere handful, but during none of them had he felt as he did now. The red fury that embraced Thenn during combat had parted, and he saw with the greatest clarity the entirety of the battle around him. More than seeing differently, he thought differently. It was as if he'd had an epiphany as he lay on the ground. War was not about survival, or armies, or anything so grand.

War was about killing.

And he did. Freed from the constraints of mortality, Thenn found himself striking out at the Watcher before him as he'd never done so before. Gone was caution and safety, replaced with the drive to land the killing blow, again and again, until the Watcher was naught but a crumpled shell on the ground, empty of life and force. Thenn had seen berserkers fight on a number of occasions, had been one before, but this was different. A berserker forsook safety for blinding rage and the determination to hit, to land blows. What Thenn was doing--what all of the Rus were--was ensuring that every blow landed perfectly, precisely, so as to bring down their foe.

He had just brought down his third Watcher when Thenn first saw it. A macabre being of great speed and grace, wielding a jagged blade half again as tall as Thenn himself. The grey being rippled with muscle and raw fury, and great wings outstretched from its back. Even as Thenn watched, it slew half a dozen Watchers in an effortless act, darting across the battle lines.

Within moments, it was over. Between the Rus' newfound furiosity and the being's strength, the Watchers were torn apart in mere minutes. The surviving men, battered and covered in the blood of both sides, paused to regard it. The howling gales muffled whatever sound it may have made, and the fierce snowfalls distorted its appearance, preventing Thenn from getting a good look at it. He wasn't sure what to think of the being, or how to describe it. The rational part of his mind told him the being must be horrific, some manner of demon or monster. Nothing else could explain it.

The being held up a chalice taken from one of the fallen Watchers, filled with the peculiar, thick ice-blue blood of a Watcher. It raised the chalice in a grand salute to the Rus before turning and doing the same in the direction of where the battle still raged on, before throwing its head back and downing the chalice's contents. As the being leapt from the mountain and into the fray below, whispering one last silken command to the Rus and as they followed, Thenn finally found the words to describe the being.

A stained glass from Demacia? That certainly calls upon my attention. For a city state with a long history of devotion to the light, this artifact speaks of a dark moment in demacian history. A dissenting faction? Worshippers of the dark? Any figure that was revered and erased from the memory of all the older civilizations must have performed dark deeds, perhaps a violent rule over the lesser races. Betrayal? Was he banished? Did he simply grow bored? Waited for long time intervals to find worthy foes? There is only one place where such dark and powerful beings wouldn't be forgotten, but instead, praised.

Perhaps he didn't come from the Shadow Isles. But he must have stumbled upon the cursed place at least one time. They must know, the Altar Spirits must know something. Perhaps he is what they call the Ruined King.

So Kog'maw has a rare line that he says, which would be,"Terror coming...Daddy coming...."

Malzahar and kassadin were brought to their knees in Icathia (which so happens to be kog'maw's passive also: (Icathian Surprise)), thus leaving an infected area in Icathia, spreading void.

Could this possibly be Kog'maw's father? As everywhere south of the Great Barrier is malevolent, ominous, and spooky, and the only places not posted in Ezreal's findings would be Fyrone Flats, Sablestone mountains and Ichatia.

So Kog'maw has a rare line that he says, which would be,"Terror coming...Daddy coming...."

Malzahar and kassadin were brought to their knees in Icathia (which so happens to be kog'maw's passive also: (Icathian Surprise)), thus leaving an infected area in Icathia, spreading void.

Could this possibly be Kog'maw's father? As everywhere south of the Great Barrier is malevolent, ominous, and spooky, and the only places not posted in Ezreal's findings would be Fyrone Flats, Sablestone mountains and Ichatia.

It just all seems to add up so well....

except that someone from the void wouldnt be leading huge armies and then disappearing, or have alters built in his name

The Watchers advanced, merciless and cold as the ice they so resembled. They cared not that the men they slaughtered by the dozens lay on the ground, tired and weakened, weary of battle. The Watchers cared only that they still drew breath.

Thenn Wulfsson knelt in the snow, his life weeping into the ground around him, painting the pure white snow pink. His sword lay on the ground beside him, shattered against the diamond armor of a Watcher, and his shoulder ached from a beam of ethereal energy's glancing blow. Blood--some of it his own, some of it the Watchers', and most of it his brothers'--caked his beard and covered his face, forming a grizzly visage. He felt no shame in being bested; a warrior's death was the greatest that any son of the blade could receive.

And his death would be truly glorious: the Watchers had forced Thenn and his tribe back, and up one of the many mountains surrounding the Abyss. His brothers had fought bravely and with great tenacity, the Watchers having fought for every step of the mountain. The warriors of the Rus fanned out at a clearing near the mountain's peak, preparing to face down death, but many of them could not even lift their blades, such was the havoc wreaked by the Watchers.

For the first time in his life, as bleed poured from wounds across his body and his leg gave out beneath him, Thenn felt cold. It was not the temperature--no being born of the Freljord would ever succumb to mere cold--but the realization that they had failed. The last he'd seen of the other tribes, all were being pushed back by the Watchers in a frozen tide. It mattered not that they outnumbered the foul beings a dozen to one, for every Watcher was easily the better of two dozen mortals. The Sisters had been successful, holding their own lines and even advancing, but what did it matter? The Sisters were three, and could not hold every line at once.

And so they had lost. Thenn did not mourn for himself, or his lifelong friends who had been mowed down beside him, or those soon to be slain. He mourned for the family he had left behind, knowing that he had failed them--and damned them. At least I shall have a death worthy of song, a last stand against the greatest evil of the Freljord. I shall found with my wounds to the fore and my friends to rear, as it should be, and there will be not a single soul to see it, or sing of the tale of the last stand.

The Watchers would not even give the Rus the honors of single combat or a moment to acknowledge their prowess: they paced without stop nor sound, and never once did they cease their magical attacks. Several of the Watchers did pause momentarily of the corpses of the slain humans, bending to fill chalices with the blood of the fallen. "Honorless fiends," spat Thenn.

RISE. The voice seemed to unfold itself within the confines of Thenn's mind, whispering sweet promises and wiping away thoughts of death and glory. "Rise," he found himself muttering. "Rise." He did not recall rising to his legs or renewing his grip upon the broken blade, but he found himself limping towards the Watchers.

FIGHT.

"Fight." It became a chant, a mantra, as the warriors around him echoed his actions and his call. "Fight. Fight!"

Then Thenn was running headline towards the Watchers' line, his brothers-in-arms alongside him. He saw that their mouths were open, giving life to some vast war cry, a promise of vengeance and retribution. A hymn to death. He also realized that he, too, was giving voice to chilling dirge, and realized that it was no simple cry. They were still chanting, still screaming, fight.

At that moment, something--some minuscule aspect of the battle--shifted. Thenn Wulfsson had spent his entire life fighting, had learned to wield blade and bow since he could walk. He had won dozens of battles and lost a mere handful, but during none of them had he felt as he did now. The red fury that embraced Thenn during combat had parted, and he saw with the greatest clarity the entirety of the battle around him. More than seeing differently, he thought differently. It was as if he'd had an epiphany as he lay on the ground. War was not about survival, or armies, or anything so grand.

War was about killing.

And he did. Freed from the constraints of mortality, Thenn found himself striking out at the Watcher before him as he'd never done so before. Gone was caution and safety, replaced with the drive to land the killing blow, again and again, until the Watcher was naught but a crumpled shell on the ground, empty of life and force. Thenn had seen berserkers fight on a number of occasions, had been one before, but this was different. A berserker forsook safety for blinding rage and the determination to hit, to land blows. What Thenn was doing--what all of the Rus were--was ensuring that every blow landed perfectly, precisely, so as to bring down their foe.

He had just brought down his third Watcher when Thenn first saw it. A macabre of being of great speed and grace, wielding a jagged blade half again as tall as Thenn himself. The grey being rippled with muscle and raw fury, and great wings outstretched from its back. Even as Thenn watched, it slew half a dozen Watchers in an effortless act, darting across the battle lines.

Within moments, it was over. Between the Rus' newfound furiosity and the being's strength, the Watchers were torn apart in mere minutes. The surviving men, battered and covered in the blood of both sides, paused to regard it. The howling gales muffled whatever sound it may have made, and the fierce snowfalls distorted its appearance, preventing
Thenn from getting a good look at it. He wasn't sure what to think of the being, or how to describe it. The rational part of his mind told him the being must be horrific, some manner of demon or monster. Nothing else could explain it.

The being held up a chalice taken from one of the fallen Watchers, filled with the peculiar, thick ice-blue blood of a Watcher. It raised the chalice in a grand salute to the Rus before turning and doing the same in the direction of where the battle still raged on, before throwing its head back and downing the chalice's contents. As the being leapt from the mountain and into the fray below, whispering one last silken command to the Rus and as they followed, Thenn finally found the words to describe the being.